What's in a Name?
by Lover of Angelus
Summary: He’s been called so many things. Most names spouted from his drunken father whenever he wasn’t in front of the cameras and they were safely hidden away in the privacy of the four story mansion. SLASH.
1. D F G P S U

III **What's in a Name?**

II **Disclaimer** : Me no own, You no sue.

I **Chapter One**: "D" to "F" to "G" to "P" to "S" to "U"

II **WARNINGS**

III Graphic language, **_SLASH_**, child abuse

* * *

He's been called many things. 

Most names spouted from his drunken father whenever he wasn't in front of the cameras and they were safely hidden away in the privacy of the four story mansion. He never retaliates, never denies anything. What good would it do? All it would earn him is his mother's tears and he hates it when Mom cries.

* * *

**_Dumbass_**. 

"What's the square root of 169?" Tom asks, a folder in his lap and textbook laid out in front of him.

"Are you serious?" Owen turns around in his chair and raises his eyebrows at the older teen.

"Yeah," Tom nods.

"Thirteen, dumbass," Owen shakes his head sadly.

* * *

**_Faggot_**. 

"Are you telling me that my only son is queer?" the senator's beady eyes dart between his wife and his son.

"I'm not a queer," Tom states indifferently, keeping his voice carefully controlled.. "But there are a couple guys I have sex with," he keeps his head lowered so it doesn't look like he's trying to argue.

"How long has this been going on?" his mother asks, her voice is soft, she's just asking a question, she's not condemning him and he loves her for it.

"I lost my virginity during freshman year at Westlake," Tom answers, his voice is still neutral and he's still carefully avoiding his father's glare.

"With a woman, I hope?" the older man snarls. Tom shakes his head in negation. "I can't believe I'm having this conversation."

"I can't believe you care enough to have this conversation," the teen mutters under his breath before he can stop himself. The senator's head whips around and glares at Tom with such hatred that the teen feels as if he's ready to just burn right up into ashes.

"Who wouldn't care that their only son is a faggot!" the senator shouts, turning on his heel and heading toward the Corner. Tom's eyes widened in fear and he glances at his mother who has already risen to her feet.

* * *

**_Good for nothing_**. 

"Shut up!" the old man shouts. He downs whatever alcohol is in the cup by his hand as he strides over toward the Corner.

Tom does nothing. He says nothing. He's used to this; he's heard the speech over a million times. But when he sees his father go over to the Corner, which absolutely deserves capitals, he knows that he's screwed, knows that what's gonna happen next will be a real bitch.

"I'm sorry, dad," he whispers hoarsely and oh, how he wishes his mother was here, she would protect him, she always did because no matter how drunk or angry his father is, he never hits a woman. "Please," he hates the weakness in his voice but he can't help it.

"Good for nothing, queer," the old senator growls in the back of his throat as he quickly strides back over to Tom, the two-by-four plank of cedar swinging at his side.

"Dad, you're drunk," Tom tries to reason with his father but the alcohol-induced haze clouds up his words and prevents them from getting through. Tom's eyes dart between his father's face and the wood at the older man's side.

* * *

**_Prick_**. 

"Why didn't you call me back?" Karen's voice is shrill and it's giving Tom a headache. He had somehow been coerced here but this little tramp and now he was being chewed out.

"I told you, Karen, I found someone else," Tom says quietly, he's looking at the blond from underneath his eyelashes, _Oh yeah; I'm just an innocent puppy._

"You could have at least called me!" she screams again.

Tom lowers his head and scuffs his expensive black shoes in the dirt, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Look, Karen," he rubs the back of his neck and takes a deep, shuddering breath.

"Don't 'Look, Karen' me, you bleeding prick!" she stamps her foot and her voice becomes impossibly louder. "I don't even want to hear any of your excuses!" she turns on her heel and stomped off.

Tom doesn't even watch her go as he drops his act and turns around and heads back toward the boy's dorm, he wants to see Owen.

* * *

**_Son_**. 

Tom is on the ground. His father long gone and the two-by-four returned to its hidden corner. He wants to get up, but he remembers that pain will shoot through his entire body and he's not quite read for that just yet.

He hears the door open and his mother's voice glides its way into the room like a song. He hears her heels clicking hurriedly toward the room he's in, a servant must've delivered the news, wonderful. He hears the doors open and her soft gasp. He can't see her but he wishes he could. He tries to get up, but the pain is worse than he thought it would be and he's forced back down.

"Tom!" his mother's voice is hurrying toward him and Tom feels laughter in his throat. "Oh, my son," she whispers, kneeling beside him and turning him over to his back.

"What up, Mom?" he asks, looking up her as he lifts up an arm and wipes blood away from his nose.

* * *

**_Useless piece of shit_**

"Why can't you go one day at school without getting into trouble?" she chides him quietly.

Tom holds the ice on his knuckles and glares out the window, jaw muscles clenching.

"Answer me, Tom," she demands, her finger hooking under her only son's chin and forcing him to look up at her.

"He was talking trash about a friend of mine," Tom answers with a sigh, his moss green eyes softening as he watches the principle's office.

"Would that be Owen Matthews that you're speaking of?" she asks with a small smile. Tom's eyes dart over to his mother and his mouth opens slightly. "Don't be so surprised, I know more than you think."

Before Tom can say anything else, the doors open and Tom's father walks out quietly, he turns around and shakes hands with the principle before striding over to his family. He glares at Tom.

"Useless piece of shit," he snarls under his breath as he pulls the lacrosse captain out of the chair by the back of his shirt.

* * *

Oh yeah. 

He's been called so many things that it's hard to keep track.

* * *

III 

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	2. A B C H J S W

III **What's in a Name?**

II **Disclaimer** : Me no own, You no sue.

**Quick Note That Has Nothing to Do with the Story**: In Lacrosse, there are three midfielders. The midfielder's responsibility is to cover the entire field, playing both offense and defense. The midfielder is a key to the transition game, and is often called upon to clear the ball from defense to offense. A good midfielder demonstrates good stick work including throwing, catching and scooping. Speed and stamina are essential. The midfielder's responsibility is to cover the entire field, playing both offense and defense. A good midfielder demonstrates good stick work including throwing, catching and scooping. Speed and stamina are essential.

I was just doing a bit of research on Lacrosse, looking for the toughest spot for Tom to play and this seemed like it.

I **Chapter Two**: "A" to "B" to "C" to "H" to "J" to "S" to "W"

II **WARNINGS**

III Language & **_SLASH_**

* * *

He's been called many things.

Some names spouted from his many lovers, both male and female, after those long nights as he and whoever it is that he's just fucked lie in a sweaty heap of entangled limbs. He loves these names, they replace all others that come from telephone conversations with his father.

* * *

**_Angel_**.

His long legs quickly cover ground. Feet pounding against the pavement. Arms slicing the air at his sides. Whole body leaning forward. Sweat beads on his forehead and runs down his temples in small rivulets.

"Not now," he whispers to himself as he runs faster and faster, practically flying down the sidewalk ignoring the shouts and indignant protests from those who couldn't get out his way in time. "Please, not now!"

"It's about time," Owen said snidely as Tom skidded to a stop in front of him.

"I was out jogging, I know you like me sweaty when we're together," Tom replied, smiling his Charmer's smile. "I know I looked hot out there."

"Like an angel."

* * *

**_Asshole_**.

"Please don't tell me that you and Randall were doing what I think you were just doing," Dodger scoffed as a miffed Randall ran a hand through his mussed hair.

"Ah, well," Randall stepped past Tom and started toward the exit. He took no more than two steps before Tom's long arms snaked around his waist and pulled him backwards. "Tom!"

"What if we were?" Tom challenged, resting his head on Randall's shoulder and glowering at the red-head before them.

"That's your prerogative," Dodger barely managed to stammer out, shrugging her trembling shoulders as her eyes darted between the other two teens. She then turned on her heel and quickly made her way out of the tiny chapel.

Tom's laughter reverberated through his chest and rumbled against Randall's back.

"You're a real asshole, you know that?" he said, trying to ignore Tom's hot breath on his neck.

"I know," Tom chuckled as his hands traveled south.

* * *

**_Beautiful_**.

Heavy breathing echoed off the walls, filling the room.

"That _never_ sucks," Tom breathed out as he flopped down next to Owen.

"Of course not," Owen ceded, closing his eyes and letting a small smirk play on his lips. "I'm very good."

"Not as good as me," Tom laughed, threading his fingers through Owen's hair, which was now matted with sweat. He fingered the bandages and he felt the rage well up in his chest again. "Doesn't hurt does it?" he asked.

Owen's eyes opened and he watched with awe as the fear and rage and something that wasn't quite love flicker in and out of Tom's darkened moss green eyes. "No," he whispered, loving the feel of Tom's fingers as they played with the stitches.

"You're half-shaved head is very unflattering by the way," Tom mocked, leaning over and kissing the back of Owen's head. The younger teen winced at the small twinge of pain that greeted him when Tom's lips connected with the still tender spot.

"We can't all be beautiful," Owen sighed.

"No; but I'll be beautiful so you don't have to work so hard," the other teen said, nodding emphatically. "Okay?"

"I'm so lucky to have someone so considerate."

* * *

**_Captain_**.

He walks around the campus. His team is walking behind him and everyone gets out of their way. Yeah, that's right, they own this campus. The girls swoon and the guys are placing their bets on the next game.

Tom walks ahead of his team, the other two attackmen flanking him, his head held high and his hands in his pockets, his gaze is distant yet fierce. And all around him, time seems to freeze as his long confidant strides carry him up the stone stairs and into the school. Yeah, that's right, he owns this campus.

After all, he's captain of the lacrosse team and he's lead his team to victory more times than any other previous captains in the history of the school.

* * *

**_Handsome_**.

He tugs at the restricting collar and curses softly.

"Stop messing with it, honey," Tom's mother chides him softly.

"Why do I have be here?" he asks, with a smile on his face, looking at the cameras that surround him and his family.

"Because your father wants to show off what a handsome son he has," she replies automatically. The whole conversation is automatic, he asks and she answers, the whole thing is practically rehearsed and Tom almost wishes that Owen or Randall were here. But he takes it back instantly because he wouldn't wish this on even Dodger.

"This way please!" called out a waiter as he led the family of three to their table. More cameras flashed and more reporters asked their mundane questions.

On second thought, yeah he would.

* * *

**_Jerk_**.

"What happened to that one chick?" Owen asked, glaring at his cards. "The one with the tongue piercing?"

"I talked her ex into coming back," Tom answered, sighing in defeat as he laid down his cards, a royal flush. "I was tired of her always nagging me about what color my socks were. Can you beat that?"

"Fuck you, man," Owen snarled, throwing down his own cards before shuffling the deck.

"You promise?"

"You're such-"

"A great poker player?"

"Well, I was gonna say 'jerk' but that works, too."

* * *

**_Jock_**.

Tom is often asked what he wants to do with his life. He often answers with rehearsed sentences that his father has been force-feeding him over the span his entire life...

_"I'm thinking about working in the political career, follow in the old man's footsteps," he smiles his toothy smiles, pats his father on the shoulder and ignores the pain in his chest._

Interview after interview, because he's the Senator's only son...

_"I've got plans for becoming a senator, hopefully one day be half the man my father is," he smiles bashfully and nods at his father, who beams proudly and not a single camera can capture the look of contempt in those nearly back irises._

Question after meaningless question about college plans...

_"I'll play the jock for a while and when I graduate I'll go to college and begin politics. It won't be that hard, my father's a great Senator and I'll be able to learn a lot from him," he looks at his father with something close to "adoration"._

_"That's my son," laughs the old man, clapping his son on the back and no one notices the infallible hatred or cloaked pain flash through Tom's moss green eyes as he bruised ribs rub against each other._

* * *

**_Sinful_**.

The phone was unbearably loud. Owen winced and groaned pressing the pillow over his ears.

The ringing didn't stop.

"Tom, if this is you, I swear you're not getting anything from me when you get back," Owen snarled into the phone after he found the strength to remove himself from the warm cocoon of blankets.

"Talk dirty to me," said the voice on the other end of the line.

"What the fuck, Tom?" Owen whined, rubbing a fist in his eye.

"My dad just beat me to shit," Tom's usual confidant and vain tone was completely gone, replaced with a defeated murmur that ripped a giant hole in Owen's heart. "Tell me you love me," he whispered.

"I love you," Owen whispered, he wished he could be holding Tom right now, at least that way he could kiss away the pain. But to hear Tom like this it must have been one of the bigger beatings.

"Why?" the hoarse and cracked voice on the other end literally brought tears to the Brit's eyes.

"You're sinful, like chocolate."

"Chocolate?" Tom raised his eyebrows, his spirit beginning to return, if only a little. "I'm that good?"

"Definitely."

"What're you wearing?"

"If I said 'nothing' how turned on would you be?"

* * *

**_Wrong_**.

"No!" Tom is furious as he paces angrily around the abandon chapel, reminding everyone of an angry lion.

"Will you calm down and just listen?" Owen's voice is quiet as he stands in the aisle, hands in his jean pockets. Tom barely spares him a glance before turning his fiery gaze to a crack in one of the distant walls, he stopped pacing. If Tom was the lion, Owen was his trainer.

"What's there to listen to?" Randall questions from his spot in the pew, he ignore Owen's small glare. He turns to face Tom. "You have every reason to be mad, but you have to listen to the facts."

A sinister smirk crossed over Tom's lips as he slowly stalked toward the sitting man. "The facts," the words rolled off his tongue like poisoned honey. "The facts? All I need to know is that Jason was just here and he hurt Owen. What else is there to know?" he demanded, his voice slowly rose till he was shouting. "What else, Randall?"

Randall withdrew into himself, trying so desperately to escape Tom's raging emerald eyes. "Ask Owen," he whimpered.

"It's not really something we should talk about," Owen said quickly.

"What are you hiding?" Tom questioned, suspicion thick in his voice.

"You mean besides your underwear in my dresser?" Owen cracked a nervous smile.

"Yes; besides that," Tom slowly advanced towards the much smaller man. "What happened?"

"He tried to steal money that I didn't have," Owen finally admitted rather sheepishly. Though this did nothing to soothe Tom's rage completely, the jock didn't stand quite so tall anymore as he slouched and slung his arm around Owen's neck and brought him closer, kissing the top of Owen's head.

"What about me?" Randall asked, jumping up from the pew and tapping Tom on the shoulder. "I was the one who chased the guy off, right Owen?"

"Aww," Tom smiled, his anger dissipating completely. "Thanks, Randall," he said in a high pitched voice, pulling the other teen in for a sloppy kiss.

"Ugh!" Randall wiped at his mouth. "You are so wrong!"

* * *

He's been called so many things that he's grown so tired. So tired of it all. But, it's kinda okay now, because Owen is here and he's promising never to leave.

He wonders how long it'll last.

* * *

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